Farren nurses his ale sullenly, all dead and I am left the only survivor. Why does the sea reject me so? he asks himself, but now he knows why. He looks about himself discretely, making sure no one is watching before staring down into his cup, with a flick of his finger the ale starts to dance. A sphere of ale forms over his cup, rotating slowly, this power. Is it a blessing, or a curse? He starts and the ale splashes back into the cup when he hears the sound of breaking glass. Across from him an old drunk is staring at Farren in awe, the man's own ale is cascading from the table and onto his lap. "What are you looking at?!" Farren looks away before the man catches his eye and downs his ale with a shaking hand.
He signals a wench for more ale and continues to mope. Besmara, send me a sign.